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“There’s no accounting for what storms can do to a boat in open water,” Knud said.

“Aye,” Leif was already making for the exit. “But a damaged craft is preferable to injured men.”

Knud set aside the necklace he was working on and met Leif at the door. “We’ve at least an hour before Old Sten arrives. There’s time enough to visit the dock before then.”

Leif gave him a grateful nod. Over the last two years, Knud had proven to be a loyal friend. After Leif confessed his reluctance to participate in raids, Knud had sacrificed his opportunity to return home with valuable spoil by volunteering to join Leif in standing guard over the longboats rather than participating in the plundering. Later, when Leif’s regular interactions with Father Robert brought him to the point where being associated with the pillage of monasteries and abbeys in any way became unacceptable, Knud had been the only one to support Leif’s decision to pass his position of leadership in the second longboat to another. It had been far less painful than Leif would have imagined. His cousin Arne had the most experience in the boat and was more than ready to take on the task.

The men who had sailed with Leif had accepted the change with varying degrees of surprise and acceptance. Rune’s reaction had been one part incredulity and another part anger that he had not been offered Leif’s position at the helm. For himself, Leif was happy to have Rune as far from a leadership role as possible. It had been two years since the raid that had changed the course of his life, and even now, he occasionally awoke in a cold sweat, with Rune’s callous killing of Rhiannon’s father filling his nightmares.

Telling his father of his intention to become a silversmith had been the most difficult conversation of all. His father had been furious. The jarl was a Viking. His sons were Vikings. It was a matter of tradition. Of pride. And it had taken months for his father to acknowledge that Leif’s decision was more than a passing whim and that he had no small amount of skill in jewelry making.

Leif strongly suspected that his father’s eventual softening from raging anger to reluctant acceptance was largely due to his mother’s influence. He’d mentioned it to Father Robert once, and the priest had suggested that Leif’s Christian great-grandmother may have also held some sway from beyond the grave. No matter which woman deserved the credit, Leif was grateful. Despite the change in his religious outlook, he was a proud Norseman and had no desire to be estranged from his family or his people.

“We have new arrivals coming in to dock,” Knud said, interrupting Leif’s churning thoughts with the basic observation. “But that’s no Viking longboat.”

They had reached the end of the narrow street, and up ahead, a small boat bobbed up and down in the shallow water. Shorter and wider than the Viking longboats, this craft carried not more than half a dozen oarsmen. Each of them sat leaning on an oar, watching the growing crowd on the bank warily. A single sail flapped against the mast above the men’s heads, a circled cross boldly emblazoned upon the canvas.

“It’s come from Gwynedd or Deheubarth,” Leif said.

“How can you tell?”

Leif tore his eyes from the familiar symbol and studied the ship more carefully. “Do you see the leather pulled tight over the woven hull? It is the same method the Cymry use with their coracles.”

Knud studied the boat. “They must have had the wind in their sail to arrive here safely in so flimsy a vessel.” He paused. “Or do we assume they were simply blown off course?”

“When it comes to foreigners, we assume nothing,” Leif said grimly. “Particularly when Dyflin’s fiercest Vikings are gone to sea.” He started down the pebbled slope with Knud at his heels. Onlookers—primarily children and the fishermen who gathered daily at the water’s edge—parted to let them through. The young people’s excited voices had become subdued whispers, and a feeling of uncertainty hung in the air.

Leif reached the water’s edge and stood with his hands on his hips. “Who goes there?” he called in Gaelic. “And what brings you to Dyflin’s shores?”

A short man wearing a brown traveling cloak stood up in the boat. The craft rocked back and forth, and the stranger grasped the mast to steady himself.

“My name is Seisyll,” he called. “I speak for Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd—brother to Owain ap Gruffydd, king of Gwynedd—who is come to seek an audience with Jarl Ottar of Dyflin.”

At Leif’s side, Knud released a hissing breath. Although he could not understand the Gaelic, his friend had obviously recognized the names. Leif remained perfectly still. He had yet to meet Owain Gwynedd, but the king’s reputation as a powerful leader preceded him. If Leif’s memory served him correctly, Owain had two brothers, one of whom had died at least a decade past. Was it possible that this boat carried the other?

“I am Leif, son of Jarl Ottar of Dyflin.” He spoke loud enough that his voice carried across the water. “What business does Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd have with Jarl Ottar?”

A wave rolled in, causing the boat to sway. Seisyll staggered back a step before resuming his post with as much dignity as he could muster.

“It is a matter for the jarl’s ears only,” he called back.

“Would you have me send someone to warn the jarl?” Knud asked softly.

“Aye,” Leif replied. “I can hold him off a little while longer, but if the boat truly carries Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd, my father will wish to send men to escort him to the great hall.”

Knud gave an almost imperceptible nod and slipped away.

With his fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife in his belt, Leif kept his eyes on the boat. “You may approach the shore,” he said, raising his voice again.

Seisyll resumed his place on a wooden bench, and a second man rose. This one had his sea legs beneath him, and within a few short minutes, he had furled the sail. When the large wool cloth was tied securely, he sat and the splash of oars began.

The small boat approached steadily, and it wasn’t long before the hull scraped the pebbled beach. Someone gave an order, and four men jumped out to drag the boat out of the water. Once the prow was clear, the only man who had remained seated finally stood. His fur-lined cloak covered all but his shoes and the lower portion of his hose and was clasped at his shoulder with an elaborate gold brooch. Dark hair fell to his shoulders and was the same color as his beard.

“Leif, son of Ottar,” he said, inclining his head. “I am Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd.”

Leif bowed, raising his head as the thud of rapid footsteps reached him. “Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd,” he said. “Your escort is come.”

Rhiannon stood barefoot on the sand dune, watching the sun rise over the mountains of Eryri. Its pale-yellow light cast a faint glow across the narrow strait separating Ynys Môn from the mainland, turning the dancing waves from slate gray to silver. She breathed deeply, offering a silent prayer that the new day would bring fresh answers to the maelstrom of questions circulating the llys, along with some small measure of peace for Gwenllian.